A Day In The Life of Sherlock Holmes
by MissShawnaAlice
Summary: Sherlock knew that one day his line of work would catch up to him; he just didn't realise how much it would hurt.
1. Torture

John glanced over at Sherlock curled up on the tiny sofa, and noted for the third time how pale and thin he looked. It had been a tough case; enough twists and turns that Sherlock had barely slept or eaten for the entirety of the case, and now John could see the ill effects it was having on the lanky man. Each victim had been tortured to within an inch of their lives, and had then been dosed with insulin to send them into hypoglycemic shock, before dumping them in a coffin and burying them, the final act being to send a letter to the police force to telling them where to find the body. Sherlock had surmised that it was a vigilante, as each victim had some sort of criminal record, usually for a petty crime.

_"__He's insecure. Working with a silent partner; he lives for the violence, she provides the insulin that finishes the deed. Siblings I think; both feel that an injustice was committed against them, and they're trying to restore what they see as balance."_

_"__How the hell do you know that Sherlock?" The tall lanky consult shrugged his shoulders at Lestrade's question._

_"__It's obvious, isn't it?"_

They'd tracked down the sibling duo, Giles and Rosie Clarke, with the evidence mounting against them, and both had been returned to the jail from which they'd escaped two years previously. Lestrade had closed the case and promptly sent John and Sherlock back to 221B for some much needed rest. John sat on the armchair, feeling his eyes droop as exhaustion tightened its grip. He momentarily debated whether to wake Sherlock up and send him to his room, but realised it probably wasn't worth it. He grabbed the Belstaff off the hook on the wall and draped it over Sherlock before heading upstairs to his own room, collapsing on the bed, still fully dressed. Sleep claimed him before he could contemplate changing.

John woke up four hours later, his gut churning.

_Something was wrong._

"Sherlock?" He called softly, moving quietly through the flat.

_Something was terribly wrong._

John moved to the sitting area; no Sherlock. The bedroom was next checked, along with the bathroom.

"Where in the hell are you?" Muttered John. He looked at the sofa, finally noticing the blood spray on the cushions, and the note left on the pillow Sherlock had previously been resting on.

_John pulled out his phone, and speed-dialled Lestrade._

* * *

><p>"Drink this," said Mrs Hudson softly, handing John a steaming hot cup of tea. He glanced up at Lestrade.<p>

"Are Giles and Rosie still in custody?" Asked John quietly.

"I've checked and double-checked. They're in processing now. This isn't them," assured Greg.

"This is how they operate though!" Exclaimed John, dropping the teacup to the floor. Mrs Hudson squeaked then moved to the kitchen to grab a sponge to clean up the mess.

"We'll find him John. We always do."

* * *

><p>Sherlock awoke in a very dark room, and tried to look around, taking stock of what happened. His head felt fuzzy, his mouth dry, his senses confused as to what was going on. A bright overhead light flicked on, and he winced as his eyes struggled to adjust. He was tightly strapped to a chair, no room for movement.<p>

"Hello?" He called raspily, finally making his lips work. He squinted, looking to see if he could see anyone with him.

No answer.

He felt his breath catch in his throat as a door on the far side of the room opened then closed again. He tried to listen for footsteps, tried to deduct who was standing there.

"Hello? Anyone?" Called Sherlock, his voice sounding stronger.

Still no answer.

It was a standard interrogation and interview trick. Open the door, make it seem like someone is coming, then close it again; it gave him false hope. Hope that someone was coming.

He heard footsteps behind him, and he tried to swivel his head around to see who it was. He heard liquid sloshing around in a container, and warm hands untied his wrists. He flailed out for a moment, and heard a masculine grunt as he made contact with flesh. He was quickly blindfolded, then his arms stretched out on the arms of the chair. They were strapped down tight, and though Sherlock wanted to be strong, he could feel himself trembling in fear, his heart racing, similar to the thrill of the chase.

_All he wanted right now was someone to save him._

He could distinguish two sets of footsteps; heavier ones that he assumed were masculine, and lighter, easier steps that he thought were perhaps feminine. The liquid sound moved from behind him to in front of him, and a plastic sheet was laid over his lap. Next thing he knew, the liquid was poured over his arms, and he felt the tendrils of pain start to pull at him.

Acid.

They were using acid to try and break him.

He could feel himself panicking and he desperately wanted to scream, but he knew he couldn't do it for long.

He knew this wasn't going to be easy.

"What…. What do you want?" He uttered through gritted teeth.

"Nothing dear Sherlock," replied the masculine voice.

"Nothing at all," added the feminine.

* * *

><p>He'd fallen asleep, the pain having settled to an almost reasonable level. His arms ached, the skin peeled off in several places, and most wounds were weeping clear fluid and blood.<p>

_He had to survive. _

A loud crash awoke him from his slumber, and he sat up, startled. He hissed in pain as the flesh on his arms shifted, and he slowed down his movements. He felt his eyelids growing heavy, and his head tilted back. His torpor was interrupted again as heavy metal music was played through a speaker system, the volume distorting the sound.

_Sleep deprivation._

He sat up, battling the fatigue in his body, and desperately tried to stay awake. It wouldn't have been a problem if he hadn't just finished a case and was already exhausted.

_He just had to hold on. _

The bright light went out again, and Sherlock was pitched into darkness.

"Hello?" He called. He knew it was pointless though; no-one had answered yet. The blinding light flicked on, and Sherlock felt like his already pounding head would explode. There was rustling behind him, and he twisted his head, still trying to see. Someone laughed; more of a girlish giggle if anything.

"What do you want?" He asked.

"I've already got what I want," answered a male voice. Sherlock received a blow to the face for his question, and stars appeared in front of his eyes before the entire room was lit up.

He was centre stage, strapped to a chair, unable to move. The only other occupant he could see in the room was a young woman, around twenty-three years old. She was standing in the corner, observing. Sherlock finally took a moment and looked down at his arms; they were pink and glistening, and as he looked at them, he felt a bubble of panic rise in his throat. The pain was getting to beyond manageable, and the blow to the leg by a crowbar wielded by the male in the room didn't help. He tried to stay quiet, but by the fourth blow, he was openly screaming.

The attack stopped after twelve blows, and Sherlock let his head hang, panting heavily. He couldn't even think straight enough to diagnose himself.

All he knew is that the pain was beyond excruciating.

After a few moments respite, Sherlock felt his restraints being pulled off, and he thought about fighting back.

_He would wish he had. _

His arms were raised above his head, and his hands secured on a length of chain; he was hanging like a piece of meat in a butchers. His feet barely touched the floor, and he could feel the injured skin on his arms tugging painfully. He glanced over at the young woman in the corner, and she didn't even flinch. He heard something being removed from a box, and then a lash across his back.

And another lash.

And another.

Sherlock screamed throughout the process, up until his throat felt raw and bloody, and he couldn't speak. He knew he was in serious trouble, and hoped that he would be found sooner rather than later.

_He didn't know how long he could hold out. _

When the male had finished, Sherlock could hear him putting away his torturous tools; he sounded meticulous.

"Why?" Asked Sherlock. The man didn't answer; he just delivered a swift kick to Sherlock's groin. The pain was enough to make him pass out. It wasn't for long though; a bucket of water over Sherlock's face quickly brought him back to the reality.

_John._

_Save me._


	2. Agony

_Sherlock wanted to die._

His whole body ached, screaming at him in agony. The male released Sherlock, letting his bruised body hit the floor before dragging him to a dingy mattress in the corner. It was placed on a rickety bed frame, one that looked barely stable enough to hold the mattress, let alone Sherlock. The male shoved him onto the bed, then bound him tightly to the frame. Sherlock moaned as the pain shot through him, and fell silent when slapped again. The male grinned, then crossed the room to stand next to the young woman, wrapping an arm protectively around her waist, one hand splaying across her abdomen.

"Lovers. Not siblings," commented Sherlock weakly. The male glared at Sherlock.

"You're the brother to Rosie and Giles Clarke; your facial structures are similar. She's along for the ride, not sure why, but it could have something to do with the fact that she's eight… no, ten weeks pregnant." The woman glanced at the man, her façade falling, and Sherlock knew he'd found a weak spot.

"But it's not yours."

* * *

><p>"What are we missing?" Hissed John, pacing Lestrade's office, wringing his hands nervously. Anderson ducked in, dropping two fat files on the desk, and disappeared again.<p>

"Here are the files for Rosie and Giles. Hopefully they can shed some light on the situation," answered Greg quietly. He pulled a file towards himself and flipped it open, scanning through the pages of information. John took a seat on the other side of Greg's desk and pulled the other file to himself, flicking mindlessly through the pages.

"What the hell do you even expect to find in here?" Asked John, frustrated after a few seconds of reading. Greg flipped the file around and pointed to the fourth line down.

"This is what I was looking for. Rosie and Giles have a brother."

"Rupert Clarke," breathed John.

"I reckon the brother has everything to do with this. Let's grab Donovan and Anderson and let's go chat to him, find out his side of the story." Greg pulled on his jacket and grabbed his keys, indicating to Donovan and Anderson to follow him.

"Wait, Greg!" Called John. Greg stalled, glancing back at the army doctor.

"What?"

"Giles had a girlfriend, Georgina Williams, and it was noted in his file that she was visiting less, and that she was escorted off the grounds at one point because she was unwell," said John, reading from the guards notes.

"You think she might be involved?" Asked Greg.

"I think that something bigger than just getting revenge for a brother and sister being in jail is a little far-fetched. I think Giles found something out that they didn't intend for him to find out," said John.

"Like what? His little brother was shagging his girl?" Scoffed Donovan. Greg looked at her, the lights coming on inside his head.

"God. It makes sense. That's why he went on a killing spree after being under the radar for nearly two years," said Greg, finally understanding.

"Why?" Asked Anderson.

"He found out his girlfriend was pregnant with his brothers baby."

* * *

><p>Sherlock had finally managed to doze off, before being awoken by the sound of singed flesh, letting out a muffled yelp as he realised he was being burnt with a crudely designed metal brand. Sherlock twisted, trying to pull away from the red hot metal, but didn't succeed; it only added to the pain from the open lashes on his back, and he wished he could scream with the agony it was causing him. He finally caught a good look at the man inflicting the pain on him, and realisation flooded through him.<p>

"Rupert. You're Rupert," gasped Sherlock.

"Doesn't matter who I am, just matters that you get hurt. My brother was trying to get to you before you destroyed his plan, and I'm going to finish it," snarled Rupert, pressing the hot metal deeper against Sherlock's alabaster skin.

"John!" He screamed, desperate for some sort of relief. The brand was pulled away, and Rupert tossed it on the floor. He crossed to a cupboard, and wrenched open the doors. Rows of tools were situated there, each one gleaming in the light.

"Seems my brother kept my favourite knife. Looks like I'll get to use it on you," growled Rupert. He pulled out a short switchblade, tucking the folded knife into his pocket before unhook Sherlock from the bed.

"This won't take long," he whispered. He pulled the chains around his wrist again, suspending the lanky man from the ceiling. The woman had left the room, leaving Rupert with Sherlock.

"When I'm finished making you bleed, I want to find out if you're a virgin or not. She doesn't need to see that," he whispered, flecks of spittle dotting Sherlock's face. He pulled the knife out of his pocket, and plunged it upwards, shallow cuts into his stomach and torso; designed to hurt and to bleed a little, but not to make him bleed out.

One…

Two…

Three…

Four…

Sherlock quickly lost count, no longer screaming John's name, just screaming in case someone could hear him. Rupert laughed maniacally, and Sherlock realised there would be no way out of this for him. He could no longer stand on his own two legs, one of them broken. Rupert lowered him down low enough for himself to reach, and used the stained blade to cut Sherlock's tailored pants off him, the useless fabric pooling on the floor. Rupert dropped the blade on the floor, pulling Sherlock close.

"I'm going to enjoy leaving my mark on you." Before he could even prepare himself mentally, Rupert penetrated him, and Sherlock refused to let himself show the pain. He bit his bottom lip, drawing blood as Rupert continued to move inside him. His own body was betraying him, starting to enjoy the movement. He hated himself as their impending finish came closer, and Rupert increased his tempo, seeking his own finale.

"We could have so much," grunted Rupert, and as Sherlock's back arched in a mix of pain and pleasure, Rupert groaned, finding his release. He didn't flag though, continuing to pound into Sherlock. It was violent and messy, and Rupert started to become abusive, striking Sherlock with each thrust.

"Please John. Save me."

* * *

><p>"They're not home. How are we supposed to find them if they're not home?" Exclaimed John, frustrated.<p>

"We'll post a watch for now, see if they come back," said Lestrade, pulling out his phone to make the necessary phonecalls.

"Have you still got surveillance on the brother's house?" Asked John.

"No, we stopped after we brought them into custody," replied Greg.

"What if they're there?"

"Sherlock could have been under our noses all this time!" Exclaimed Greg, running back to the police cruiser. Donovan and Anderson were close behind, John glancing at his watch as he followed.

"How long has it been?" Asked Greg, throw the cruiser into reverse.

"Nearly six hours," responded John.

"We've got to get to the other side of town and hope that Rupert hasn't buried him yet," replied Greg, focusing on the traffic in front of him.

"Hang on Sherlock. We're coming."


	3. Emancipation

"Georgie? Georgie, where are you?" Called Rupert, wiping his hands clean. He dropped Sherlock to the floor and headed out the door. She met him on the stairs, worry on her face.

"I can hear the police," she whispered.

"Shit. They're not supposed to find us yet!" Exclaimed Rupert.

"I can't do this anymore Rupe. Not with a baby on the way. I'll do my time and all that, but I'm not going to be an accessory to what you're doing!" Snapped Georgina.

"Stupid bitch! Who do you love more, Giles or me?" Snarled Rupert. Georgina started crying, and Rupert slapped her.

"God, I knew it would be a mistake to shag you. I did it to spite Giles, not because I loved you!" Rupert heard the sirens coming closer, and knew he had to act fast.

"You do whatever you have to do; I'm getting out of here." Rupert travelled down the stairs digging in his pocket for the syringe he knew he had there.

Time to finish this.

He flung the door open, Sherlock barely moving from the floor.

"You bastard. Brought the police to find me! I can't bury you anymore, but I can sure as hell send you into hypoglycemic shock," snarled Rupert. He pulled out the syringe and plunged it into Sherlock's abdomen, distributing the insulin there. He patted Sherlock's cheek, and stood up, dusting off his hands.

"It was fun playing with you Sherlock. I'll tell my brother you said hello." Rupert waltzed up the stairs, whistling as he went. Sherlock moaned, sparks of pain shooting up through his brain, wrapping around until he couldn't think anymore. Every thought was like a bar of soap, falling away from him.

He could hear the police as they arrived...

_Shots fired..._

_He could hear footsteps..._

_Save me John._

* * *

><p>"Greg? Greg, I need you to call an ambulance, stat!" Yelled John, taking the last two steps in one stride before entering the basement. The sight that greeted him was horrific, and it took all his training to pull himself together, and focus on his patient. Greg sprinted down the stairs, and stopped dead in his tracks as his eyes landed on the prone figure lying on the floor.<p>

"Shit." John ignored him, checking over Sherlock.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" Asked John. Sherlock's eyes opened a little, then closed again, his body relaxing.

"I think he's uncons..."

"He's seizing! Roll him into recovery," ordered John, being mindful of the damage he could see.

"Christ, how is he supposed to make it through this?" Asked Greg, holding Sherlock carefully.

"The same way we've made it through everything else. One step at a time," replied John, distracted. Sherlock relaxed, the throes of the seizure over. Greg glanced up as Donovan stopped in her tracks on the stairs.

"Shit. Um, we've got Rupert in custody with Georgina. Anderson says ambulance is five minutes out," she said softly.

"When they get here, send them straight down," ordered Greg. He glanced at John, who was taking stock of Sherlock's injuries.

"Broken leg, possibly in need of pinning. Multiple lacerations of varying depths, most requiring stitches. The burns on his arms concern me; they look like they're infected, but I can't tell. Query broken wrists, I can't determine, but they're severely bruised. I hate to think what his mental psyche is like," commented John. Greg finally realised that Sherlock was naked, and moved to pull his jacket off.

"What are you doing?" Asked John.

"He's naked," replied Greg awkwardly.

"You could cause him more pain putting that jacket on his sensitive skin. Once the paramedics get here, they'll dose him with morphine, and then we'll focus on helping him," said John softly. Sherlock started shivering, whimpering a little.

"Is he cold?" Asked Greg. John glanced around the room, and his eyes fell upon the syringe on the floor.

"Shit. No, he's suffering hypoglycaemic shock. I need that ambulance here _now_."

* * *

><p><em>"<em>_He's in hypoglycaemic shock!"_

_"__Glucose injection is prepped and ready."_

_"__He's in V-Fib!"_

_"__Grab the crash cart!"_

_"__Charging!"_

_"__Clear!"_

_"__Sinus rhythm restored."_

_"__We need to get him into surgery. Now."_

* * *

><p>Mycroft stepped out of his chauffer driven car, and tapped his umbrella on the damp pavement. It had been raining, and he was quite glad it had stopped, even if it was only briefly. He stepped inside Bart's, walking over to the nurse at the desk.<p>

"I'm looking for my brother; Sherlock Holmes," said Mycroft formally.

"He's still in surgery. There's a waiting room at the end of the hall," answered the nurse, pointing down the corridor. Mycroft marched down the passage and found Greg and John in the waiting room, John's hands covered in dry blood.

"What happened?" Asked Mycroft.

"He's been tortured," answered Greg. John seemed unable to answer, and Greg briefly entertained the idea that maybe the good doctor had gone into shock.

"How bad?"

"He's been in surgery for six hours," whispered John.

"Prognosis?"

"Unsure." The three men looked up as the surgeon walked in, pulling his scrub cap off.

"You all here for Sherlock?" He asked, voice clearly weary.

"I'm his brother, but you can tell all of us," commanded Mycroft. The surgeon took a seat, resting his elbows on his knees.

"I'm Doctor Christian Shaw. I'm the head trauma surgeon on Sherlock's case. We also have an orthopaedic specialist, and soon to be added to the team will be an occupational therapist, physiotherapist, counsellor, as well as an endocrinologist. For now, we've stabilised him and moved him to ICU," started Christian.

"What's his prognosis?" Asked John.

"It was long surgery; ortho specialist has pinned together Sherlock's right leg. Both the tibia and fibula are broken, and we may later insert steel rods. Unfortunately we had to cut the surgery short as his respiration rate dropped suddenly, so for now he's got external pinning. The burns on his arms have been cleaned and dressed, and all lacerations were stitched closed. His wrists were x-rayed in theatre, and the ortho specialist has determined that his right wrist is fractured, and his left was dislocated. His blood sugar was quite low, and our endocrinologist will be working closely with you to make sure that he suffers no lasting effects," said Christian, rattling off the facts. He suddenly glanced down, fiddling with the cap in his hands.

"What?" Asked Mycroft, clearly not happy with the surgeon's silence. Christian ran a shaking hand through his hair.

"Sherlock was raped," he added quietly.

"Oh God," whispered Lestrade, covering his mouth.

"No. Oh no, anything but that," whimpered John. Mycroft was silent, and John could feel the anger radiating off him in waves.

"Can we see him?" Asked John.

"Of course. Room 112," said Christian. He stood up, and led the three men down a floor.

_Nothing could have prepared them for this._

Sherlock lay prone on the bed, the upper half of his body uncovered, arms propped up on a pillow each, dressings evident on his back.

"Oh…" whispered Greg.

"No ventilator?" Asked John, curious.

"No, but we are monitoring him on full oxygen flow. We'd prefer not to have to intubate him, and he appears to be coping at the moment. He is on strict supervision," added Christian. Sherlock shifted a little, and his eyes opened wide, the world of pain becoming a reality. Mycroft was beside his bed in seconds, stepping into the role of big brother and protector with an ease John couldn't recall seeing.

"Shh 'Lock, you're okay," comforted Mycroft.

"Hurts. My, it hurts," gasped Sherlock. Christian was beside his bed in seconds, already adjusting the morphine pump next to the bed.

"He's burnt off the anaesthetic much faster than anticipated," commented Christian.

"Doesn't surprise me," said John quietly.

"You'll be okay 'Lock. I'll look after you," said Mycroft softly. He carded a hand through Sherlock's dark curls, trying to reassure the younger Holmes.

"John! John, please, John," cried Sherlock.

"I'm right here Sherlock," said John, crossing the room to stand next to Sherlock's bed, touching his cool fingers with his own warmer ones.

"John. John," whispered Sherlock, the pain finally loosening its grasp.

"I'm still here Sherlock. I always will be." Sherlock relaxed for a moment, before his back arched, muscles tightening, air crushed out of his lungs. Monitors started beeping, and John found himself being pushed out of the room with Mycroft as nurses and doctors flooded in.

"'Lock?"

"Sherlock!"


	4. Paroxysm

"Out of the way!" called Christian. He pushed John and Mycroft out of the way, a crash team pouring into the room.

"Sirs, you need to leave," said a nurse quietly. She led John and Mycroft outside, and sat them down.

"What's going on?" Demanded Mycroft.

"I'll get the doctor out in a moment to explain what's going on," she said quietly, before joining the team in Sherlock's room. John wrapped his arms around himself, trying to contain the anxiety.

_Hadn't Sherlock suffered enough?_

Ten minutes later, Christian stepped outside the room, looking weary.

"What happened with my brother?" Asked Mycroft.

"His glucose levels haven't settled, and his blood sugar dropped. The endocrinologist is in now, and we're going to check Sherlock's blood sugar levels every ten minutes until they start to even out. The neurologist is also going to come in and double check his cognitive functions once we've sorted the glucose problems out," said Christian.

"Can we see him?" Asked John, standing up.

"For now, I think it would be best if you went home and got some rest. We'll keep you apprised as we can, but you both need rest. Sherlock is going to need you at your best while he's at his worst. We've not only got physical issues, but his psychological issues to manage as well, and you two are going to be vital to the healing process," said Christian quietly. John took a seat, resting his head in his hands.

"How long do you think this will take? A week, two?" Asked Mycroft. Christian snorted.

"You've got to be kidding me. Broken bones alone can take two months to six months to heal, and he could be in therapy for a while. He'll also need neurological consults for the first few months to make sure that there isn't any lasting damage from the head injury. This is the calm before the storm, believe me. You'll need the rest," countered Christian.

"John, I'll drop you home," said Mycroft softly. He stood up, straightening himself before turning to the doctor.

"Thank you Dr Shaw. We'll see you tomorrow," said Mycroft tightly. He starting walking down the hall, John tottering behind him.

"You're going to come back tomorrow?" Asked John incredulously. A dark sedan pulled up next to the curb.

"What makes you doubt that I would?" Responded Mycroft, climbing into the car, John hot on his heels.

"The fact you've never really been there for him except to watch him over those bloody cameras makes me feel like maybe you're not as invested in this as you think," snapped John.

"I'm related to him, and as much as you think I'm not 'invested' I assure you, I am," replied Mycroft.

"How long before you're not? How long before something comes up and you're pulled away?" answered John. The car pulled up out the front of 221 Baker Street, and John turned to Mycroft.

"How long will you be there before I have to pick up the pieces?"

* * *

><p>"John? John," whispered Sherlock. He whimpered a little, realising he was alone, and glanced around the darkened room.<p>

"John?" Sherlock threw off the blanket, and flicked on the bedside light. Determination overrode the pain, and he tried to stand, unwavering in his urge to find John. Monitors started beeping, alerting nurses and doctors to his change in status, but he ignored them, his focus on finding John. His legs gave out first after two steps, and he hit the floor hard. A wave of pain swept over him, and he moaned.

"John," he whimpered. He pulled himself across the floor, new skin stretching to accommodate the movement. A nurse entered the room, and quickly leaned out again, calling for help.

"Oh Mister Holmes, come on, let's get you back to bed," she simpered.

"No! John! John!" Called Sherlock. He fought against the nurse, his head pounding.

"John!" He felt his body tighten, and for a few moments, he couldn't catch a breath.

"John," he exhaled, before everything went dark…

* * *

><p><em>"<em>_He's seizing!"_

_"__How long this time?"_

_"__Coming up on three minutes."_

_"__This is far too long. Someone page neuro and ortho, and get me some Lorazepam!"_

_"__Carter is getting it now."_

_"__Geez Sherlock, not going to do this half-heartedly."_

_"__Lorazepam going in now, Doctor Wainwright and Doctor Marsden are on their way up."_

_"__There's something going on here. We need to sort it out."_

_"__Someone call John Watson and Mycroft Holmes and get them here now."_

* * *

><p>John was fast asleep when his mobile rang. Scrabbling around in the dark, he found the vibrating module and picked it up.<p>

"'Lo?" He answered groggily.

"John, it's Christian from St Barts. You need to get down here as soon as possible." John fell off the side of his bed, and flipped on the light switch.

"What's happened?" He asked, worried.

"It might be easier to talk to you when you get here. We're calling Mycroft next to ask him the same thing. Can we expect to see you soon?" Asked Christian.

"Of course, I'll get dressed and I'll be there." John hung up, and scrambled to find his clothes, pulling on the first things he found. His phone started vibrating again a few minutes later, and he picked it up.

"Hello?"

"John, I'll pick you up in a few minutes." John sighed.

"Mycroft, it's polite to at least announce who you are when you call," responded John.

"Nevertheless, I'll be there momentarily." The phone call ended as abruptly as it started, and John exhaled noisily. He pulled on a jumper then grabbed his phone and wallet, heading for the door. He crept down the stairs, sneaking past Mrs Hudson's flat before exiting onto the street. Mycroft was waiting for him, and John climbed inside.

"Did Christian tell you anything?" Asked Mycroft.

"Just that we needed to be there as soon as possible. It could be anything Mycroft, I just don't know," replied John wearily.

"I suppose we'll find out when we arrive," mused Mycroft. John ignored him, watching the passing scenery until they pulled up in front of St Barts. Mycroft got out first, striding towards the glass doors, John trailing behind him like a shadow. They took the stairs two at a time, coming to the second floor, where Christian was waiting for them outside Sherlock's room.

"Mycroft. John. Please, come with me to the family meeting room," said Christian quietly, pointing down the corridor further. They followed Christian down the hall and entered the room, where three other doctors were waiting for them. He indicated for the pair to take a seat at the large table, then took a seat with his colleagues.

"Mycroft, John, this is Doctor Mark Wainwright, neurosurgeon, Doctor Hannah Parker, endocrinologist, and Doctor Tim Marsden, orthopaedic surgeon. All three have been on Sherlock's case since his admittance, and tonight we've called you in after we had an unusual turn of events," started Christian.

"John, for some reason, he's developed an attachment to you. When you were not to be found tonight, he got out of bed, fell to the floor, ripped his stitches, yet still kept searching for you. Can you enlighten us as to why?" Asked Mark. John flushed a scarlet colour, and glanced at Mycroft. He mumbled something under his breath, refusing to look up.

"What?" Asked Mycroft.

"We were sleeping together," muttered John. Christian struggled to contain his laughter as he watched the odd pair in front of him.

"How did I miss that?" Asked Mycroft incredulously.

"It doesn't matter right now. It's good to know though for Sherlock's treatment plan," said Christian, intervening.

"When a nurse found him, she tried to help him to bed, and he fought her assistance, still calling out for John. I came in as he started seizing. We timed the seizure, hoping it would wane as the others have, but he was still seizing after three minutes, and we administered a dose of Lorazepam. The seizures abated, and Mark and Tim were brought in to assess," said Christian.

"He's going to need another surgery to fix the damage he caused when he stood on his leg, as well as x-rays to determine if there is perhaps a better treatment option that would suit Sherlock," started Tim.

"While he's under, we're going to suture up the wounds he's torn open in moving, and make sure that none are presenting any infection," added Christian.

"Tomorrow, after his morning round of bloodwork, we're going to take him for another MRI to assess for further brain injury, before bringing him back to his room, and hooking Sherlock up to an EEG, and run some tests, see what we can ascertain," said Mark.

"We're still monitoring Sherlock's blood glucose levels, which I'm not happy about. We're still not sure what was in the vial that he was injected with, but so far all our lab can tell us is that it wasn't normal insulin," said Hannah, voice soft.

"What was it?" Asked Mycroft.

"We're conducting further analysis. Until we have results, I'm treating Sherlock as a diabetic, and I'm trying to keep his blood sugar levels somewhere near respectable. He's not making it easy," she replied.

"No, he never does. You may have trouble getting him to eat," said John quietly.

"We'll wait and see what the test results reveal," said Hannah.

"For now, a proposal; John, we're going to move Sherlock to a different ward with a larger room, one with a second bed. If possible, we'd like it if you could stay; it's not ideal for us to sedate Sherlock in his current state, and being able to sight you may help," said Christian.

"Whatever needs to happen, please let me know, and I'll make sure no-one is inconvenienced in any way, and that they are recompensed as required," said Mycroft stiffly.

"Mycroft, I'm sure you could stay too," said John quietly.

"I believe you were right earlier; I am not always available to care for my brother. He has not always been one to allow someone else into his inner sanctum, yet he allowed you. You are the first John, and he has already demonstrated in his poor state of mind that _you_ are the most important right now. I'll send Anthea over with a bag for you, and I'll apprise Greg and Ms Hooper of what has happened." Mycroft stood up, and walked to the door before turning around.

"Good luck John."


	5. Manifestation

They moved Sherlock two hours later, John trailing behind wearily as Christian pressed the up button on the lifts.

"How many floors up are we going?" Asked John. Christian pulled Sherlock's bed into the elevator, Carter the nurse following suit, with John bringing up the rear. The doors closed, and the lift started its ascent.

"Fourth floor is set up a little differently to most wards; it's more for our longer term residents who require more specialised care. Mycroft has paid for Sherlock to be put up in the largest room we've got, and is paying for the other half of the room for you to stay in. Usually there are two patients to a room, but in this case, you'll be in there. It's unorthodox, but we believe it to be the best option at the moment," said Christian.

"Sounds fine by me." The lift doors opened, and John immediately noticed the difference between the fourth floor and the first floor where they had been earlier. The floors were tiled instead of covered in linoleum, the walls a warm cream colour instead of the customary stark white. Carter exited first, leading the way.

"Nurses station to your left," commented Carter, after they'd passed two private rooms. Each had a viewing window, similar to ICU, but the rooms were much larger.

"And this is Sherlock's room. Biggest room, two beds, adjoining bathroom. We've had your bed swapped out with a regular bed, seeing as how you're not a patient," said Christian.

"This… this is incredible. Thank you," said John quietly.

"Thank Mycroft, his credit card is paying for all this," said Carter. He set up the blankets for a transfer, and with Christian's help, transferred Sherlock to the clean bed.

"We've got all the same monitors as we did in ICU, so we can be there as soon as something changes," assured Carter.

"We're going to monitor him for a few hours then we'll take him to surgery. Neuro can wait for a little while for Sherlock to stabilise before subjecting him to their tests. We'll get him sorted out John, it just might take a while," said Christian. He glanced up, and realised John was swaying on his feet. Christian stepped forward and steered John towards the bed.

"You need rest. We're here, and we'll wake you if you're needed," reassured Christian softly. John kicked off his shoes, his eyes barely open before he slumped sideways, out cold. Christian covered him with a blanket then motioned for Carter to leave with him.

"I want fifteen-minute obs on Sherlock, and his blood glucose checked at the same time. Try and avoid waking John where possible. Surgery is scheduled in two hours; I want him to be as stable as possible before we move him." Carter nodded

"Got it. We'll look after him Chris. Get some rest."

* * *

><p>Sherlock woke up an hour later, when Carter was taking blood.<p>

"John?" He asked, slurring in his still half-asleep state.

"He's in the bed next to you," said Carter, moving aside so Sherlock could see.

"Oh. Thank you," whispered Sherlock.

"You're going down to surgery in an hour to fix up the damage cause earlier. John will still be here when you come back from surgery, okay?" Reassured Carter.

"Okay," mumbled Sherlock. He drifted back off to sleep, the sound of John's gentle snoring lulling him to sleep.

* * *

><p>Half an hour later, Hannah and Tim were up on the fourth floor, checking on Sherlock before taking him down for surgery.<p>

"Carter, how's his blood glucose level?" Asked Hannah. Carter handed her the file.

"It's fluctuating a little, but we're adjusting his glucose as required. He's burning it off faster than we can put it in," he answered.

"That's normal. He's not eating at the moment, so his body is struggling to regulate. After tonight's surgery we should be able to get him eating again, and start to balance everything out," said Hannah.

"Fingers crossed. Probably need to let the anaesthetist know that Sherlock's been burning sedation off much faster than expected, so you probably need to keep an eye on him during surgery," added Carter.

"Noted. Tim, do you need to see Sherlock before we take him down for surgery?" Asked Hannah. Tim opened his mouth to answer, when alarms sounded at the desk.

"That's Sherlock's room," said Carter, vaulting himself across the desk and into Sherlock's room. John was standing next to Sherlock, pushing the lanky man into the recovery position as he seized violently.

"Lorazepam, now! Tim, we need to take him to surgery now while the Lorazepam is working; you don't want to be doing this surgery while he's seizing," said Hannah, moving in to hold Sherlock on his side.

"You're right. I'll organise theatre now, and we'll get him down there as soon as the seizing stops." Tim ducked out of the room, leaving Hannah with John.

"This is insane. What the hell is going on?" Asked John.

"Could be a side-effect of the altered insulin, brain injury, increased intracranial pressure, anything. I'm sorry I don't have answers for you John, but we're working on it as fast as we can," assured Hannah.

"Christ. I hope we can find something to help him," responded John. Carter sprinted into the room, Lorazepam in hand, and injected it into Sherlock's IV line.

"Won't take long." Tim returned to the private room, scrubs pulled on.

"We can take him down for surgery now if you're ready," said Tim. Hannah nodded as the seizure started to abate.

"This is it. Carter, we're moving him. John, you need to stay here, we'll keep you updated."

* * *

><p>John sat on his bed, running his hands through his dishevelled hair. He was worried about Sherlock and his recovery status, and the fact they had no idea what was causing the hypo's or the seizures had him a little worried. He glanced up as a shadow crossed the door.<p>

"Greg."

"If I didn't know better, I would say you're the sick one," said Greg he stepped in, carrying a bag. Molly was right behind him, another bag slung over her shoulder.

"Mol, you didn't have to come down," said John quietly.

"I wanted to make sure you were okay," she replied.

"How's he doing?" Asked Greg, sitting on the edge of Sherlock's bed. Molly sat next to him, looking at John with practiced eyes.

"He's still seizing, and they're not sure why. He had an episode four hours ago where he was so determined to get to me that he got out of bed, tore open stitches, and worked himself into another seizure state. Hence the fact we've moved rooms, and I've not got my own personal bed," said John, clearly stressed.

"He's got the best team working on him John. Hannah Parker, Tim Marsden, Christian Shaw and Mark Wainwright are all the top in their fields, and you can be assured that Mycroft pulled all the appropriate strings to make sure that they were assigned Sherlock. He's in the best of care, and the fact that Mycroft is allowing you to be involved in Sherlock's care is nothing short of incredible," said Molly. John flushed a scarlet red, and Greg was hit with a sudden realisation.

"You're shagging him," he announced proudly.

"Shut up!" Exclaimed John, smiling.

"Oh John, no wonder he's been in such a good mood! I thought maybe he'd found himself someone but I wasn't sure. John, that's wonderful!" Gushed Molly.

"Mate, there is something seriously wrong with you if you think you need to shag Sherlock," ribbed Greg, grinning.

"There's nothing wrong with me," retorted John. He smiled at the two of them.

"Besides, what's going on between you two?"

* * *

><p>Sherlock came to in Recovery, and promptly threw up over himself. His head hurt, body ached, and stomach was roiling.<p>

"John, where are you?" He cried weakly. Nausea won once more, and he threw up again, tears streaming down his face.

"We're getting him for you Sherlock, just calm down," comforted Christian.

"John. Please, John," he whimpered. He heard footsteps approach, felt a warm hand take his, and he jerked it away.

"It's okay Sherlock, it's me," said John softly, gripping Sherlock's hand in his.

"John. John, I've been sick," whispered Sherlock.

"I know. Carter is cleaning you up now, and then we'll get you back up to your room, alright?" Reassured John. He ran a hand through Sherlock's dark hair, trying to comfort him.

"I can't think… I can't think straight John. I can't see properly. John, I can't see!" Panicked Sherlock.

"Shh, it's alright. Calm down, okay? Take a deep breath for me, try and relax," replied John soothingly. Sherlock took a deep breath and wrinkled his nose.

"It smells odd," he complained.

"It's normal for a hospital to smell odd," answered John. Sherlock shook his head, wincing at the movement.

"Hospitals don't smell like burning rubber," he responded. John stared at him, and Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

"Do they?"


	6. Heartbreak

"Carter, I need you to go and page Dr Wainwright, now," said John forcefully.

"John, what's wrong with me?" Asked Sherlock fearfully.

"I'm not sure, but we'll work it out," replied John, trying to stay calm for Sherlock's sake. He started to stroke a hand through Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock grabbed his wrist.

"My head hurts John. Everything is too loud," he whispered. John immediately noted that Sherlock was slurring his words, seemingly unable to wrap his tongue around the simple words. Mark appeared next to Sherlock's bed, and glanced at John.

"What's up?" He asked. Sherlock tensed up, eyes rolling back as his spine arched, all coherent speech lost as his body seized.

"Shit. Carter!" Called Mark urgently. He tipped Sherlock into the recovery position, and glanced at Carter as he appeared.

"Lorazepam, now!" He ordered.

"We can't keep dosing him up on Lorazepam Mark," said John, concerned.

"I know. As soon as he's dosed up, I'll take him up for an MRI. Best to do it while he's out," said Mark. Carter reappeared, and immediately injected Sherlock with the medication.

"I'll call Mycroft, see if I can get him to come in. We need to talk about a way to manage this," said John as the seizure started to ease.

"Sounds good. We'll return Sherlock to the fourth floor when we're done. Carter, you right to come with us?" Asked Mark.

"Mycroft is paying for me to be Sherlock's nurse while he's here, so sure, I'm all yours," grinned Carter.

"We'll see you upstairs."

* * *

><p>"What do you mean 'there's nothing on the scans'?" Demanded John.<p>

"Just that. There's minor swelling from the concussion, but there's nothing otherwise to indicate the current seizure activity," said Mark. They'd returned to the family room to discuss Sherlock's ever changing condition and treatment options.

"God. This is crazy," muttered John.

"Believe me, I understand. For now, this is what we're looking at. Hannah, do you want to start first?" Asked Christian.

"Sure. John, Mycroft, it's not good news I'm afraid. Sherlock's pancreas isn't producing insulin anymore. He's going to need insulin shots every day, and learn how to recognise the signs of a hypo," started Hannah. Mycroft looked gobsmacked.

"You're saying Dr Parker, that my brother is a diabetic?" He asked.

"Yes Mycroft. It's easily managed, and especially so considering he's got John with him, but it's a bit of a shock. We've still got labs running, but so far, this is what the labs are all pointing to," said Hannah, looking almost apologetic.

"It's not a death sentence Mycroft. He can learn to manage it," said John quietly.

"John is quite right Mycroft. He'll be okay," assured Christian.

"In the realms of orthopaedics, Sherlock's last surgery went really well. His healing time will be a little longer than normal, but that's to be expected in a diabetic. The wire frame that's holding his leg together will be taken off after it's started to heal, and we'll reassess the break then. It may require internal pinning, but right now, we'll take it as it comes," reported Tim.

"Last but not least, Mark. What are we looking at for Sherlock?" Asked Christian. Mark sighed, templing his fingers in front of him.

"There's no reason for him to be having seizures; his blood sugar levels are within normal parameters, there is no evidence of TBI or raised intracranial pressure. To be honest, I've got the whole neuro department looking at this, and we're just as stumped. By all theories, Sherlock should not be experiencing these tonic-clonic seizures," said Mark.

"Yet here we are, dosing him up on Lorazepam every few hours when he starts seizing," said John, looking down at his hands.

"He's still having seizures?" Asked Mycroft, his usual fancy airs lost as his tone became concerned.

"Frequently," replied John.

"We're going to start him on some new medication, and see what we can do to ease up the frequency and intensity," decided Mark.

"Can't you just give him something to stop them?" Asked Mycroft.

"Not without destroying his liver and kidneys, or reawakening the drug habit that he's had previously. We're handling this as per protocol for standard seizures, and this means we have to toy around with different medications until we find a balance that works for him. He may still have seizures Mycroft, but with medication we can reduce the frequency and intensity, allowing him to live a normal life," answered Mark.

"I want to see him," demanded Mycroft.

"We'll go there in a moment," said Hannah diplomatically.

"Right now, we need to make some decisions," said Christian.

"Like what?" Asked Mycroft.

"Who will be the primary carer for Sherlock?" Responded Christian.

"I will, of course," responded Mycroft. John stared at him, open-mouthed.

"What?"

"I will. He is my brother, my flesh and blood. Mummy would be most upset if she found out I wasn't looking after him, and you're not even family," answered Mycroft, finality in his tone. John looked at the table, throat thick and tight.

_You're not even family._

"Maybe you're right. Excuse me," whispered John, fighting back tears. He stood up and walked out of the family room, leaving Mycroft and the four doctors behind. He got in the lift and didn't look back.

_Maybe Mycroft was best._

* * *

><p>Mycroft sat next to Sherlock's bed, his analytical mind looking over his younger brother, assessing him.<p>

"John?" Whispered Sherlock, stretching a hand out.

"No, it's My. What do you need?" He asked, moving to the edge of his seat.

"John. I need John," responded Sherlock huffily, crossing his arms as best he could.

"You don't _need_ John, you _want_ John. They're entirely different," responded Mycroft. Sherlock peeked at his brother.

"What did you do?" Asked Sherlock haughtily.

"Nothing. John left on his own accord…"

"You pulled out the flesh and blood card again! Christ, I love that man My, and you're pushing him away," scorned Sherlock.

"I'm not pushing him away Sherlock, he left! He did not have to leave!" Exclaimed Mycroft. Carter chose that moment to walk in, armed with medications. He took no notice of the arguing siblings, instead pulling over a bed table.

"Right. Sherlock, we've got some new medication to start you on, and you've got dinner coming in half an hour as well. We've got to keep an eye on your blood sugar level, and start managing your diabetes," said Carter cheerily.

"My _what_?!" Asked Sherlock. Carter looked up at him.

"Mycroft didn't tell you?" Asked Carter, paling slightly.

"No, I though Dr Parker would inform him," responded Mycroft through gritted teeth.

"John's the one who asked if he could tell Sherlock diagnoses and treatment plans. I assumed that you would take over responsibilities as Sherlock's primary carer," explained Carter.

"What on earth haven't you people told me yet?" Demanded Sherlock.

"It's okay Sherlock, I'll get Dr Shaw to come in and explain what's going on," said Carter, heading for the door.

"I want John. Bring John back!"

* * *

><p>John sat on the sofa in 221B, beer bottle in hand.<p>

_He should have known that it was too good to be true._

He loved Sherlock, enough to know it hurt being away from him. Alcohol would numb the pain, at least for a little while. He'd already sent Mrs Hudson scurrying back down the stairs on his return home, uninterested in talking to the landlady. He took another swig of the brew just as his phone vibrated on the coffee table.

_Mycroft is here, and you're not. Molly wants to know if you're okay – GL_

John ignored the message. He was cold, tired and hungry, and no longer interested.

_Mycroft was right._

He wasn't family. He wasn't even related to the Holmes family, but he felt like he was accepted into the unit. It hurt to have Mycroft decide that he was incapable of caring for the man he loved, to decide that he could no longer be there. It felt like a 180-degree turn from what Mycroft had expressed earlier at having John look after Sherlock.

_He mentioned Mummy this time around. Maybe he'd spoken to her…_

"Mycroft, I want to speak to Sherlock," demanded John. He hadn't even realised he was calling the elder Holmes brother until his phone was in his hand, ringing.

"He doesn't want to speak to you," replied Mycroft tightly. John felt his heart tighten in his chest.

"Oh. I didn't realise it was like that," said John, heart falling through his stomach.

"He said it was a mistake," added Mycroft.

"What was?"

"Sleeping with you."


End file.
